


Heart matters

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Heart Attacks, Holmes Brothers, Mycroft Being Mycroft, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 05:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10507434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Mycroft does have a heart and it's not as strong as he thought. Sherlock realises how much his brother means to him.No death, just a bit of angst.





	

Sherlock sat back on the chair and closed his eyes, just for a moment. He didn't remember when was the last time he slept. Against reason, he had been staring at Mycroft's chest, watched it rise and fall at a steady rhythm. There was nothing he could do to help, but keeping a close eye on his brother seemed to help him relax minutely. Nothing bad could happen while he was there.

They were alone. Sherlock was vaguely aware of the words of consolation and cups of tea offered to him earlier. John had left, it was a normal workday. That made Sherlock think of all those people who were blissfully happy that day, who received good news or got a promotion. For them, it was a good day, for him, it was impossibly dark.

When Anthea called him the previous day, he did not panic, didn't drop everything to rush to the hospital. He had always perceived Mycroft as an invincible, omnipotent and immortal person. Something as ridiculously common as myocardial infarction could not be the cause of his death. A violent terrorist attack or a bullet to the head, but not a heart attack. And yet a moment after the call, all of Sherlock's friends received files, meticulously prepared by Mycroft in the case of his death. He wanted to prevent another downward spiral of drugs and grief. The files contained information about Sherlock's drug-related habits, warning signs, distraction techniques. The document that was sent to Sherlock was different, Mycroft confessed he had two adult children. The secret Holmes siblings used their mother's surname. They would show up at the funeral incognito and Sherlock's task was to find them and protect them. Whether or not the story was true was immaterial, either way, it would be a much-needed distraction.

 

While Mycroft was recovering from his angioplasty, Sherlock had a sincere intention to harass his doctors, check his medical history, glance at him briefly and go back to Baker Street. Denial was the simplest solution to the problem. He wanted to think it was nothing serious. But he had discovered that was actually Mycroft's second heart attack.

Mycroft looked so unfamiliar, suitless, defenceless. Weak. Sherlock watched him, saw the real Mycroft, not the entirely false façade that he wanted to consider real. The sudden role reversal that might be permanent was not what they wordlessly agreed on. Sherlock was supposed to do whatever he wanted and Mycroft was meant to always be there for him, prepared to do anything to keep Sherlock out of harm's way. Sherlock felt unprepared for taking over the role of the grown-up Holmes, for juggling his work with family issues. The acute sense of cruel betrayal didn't let him take a deeper breath. Mycroft should have taken a better care of himself, less stress, more exercising, the Mediterranean diet. He should have known how hard this was going to be for Sherlock.

 

Mycroft was surprised to see him there. The previous time, shortly after Sherlock's suicide, hiding the truth from the family could not be any easier. Mummy and Daddy did not suspect a thing, too preoccupied with mourning Sherlock in a quiet but convincing manner. Now they knew and were about to scold Mycroft for being so careless with his heart as soon as they got to London.

'There's no reason for you sit here with me, I'm feeling much better,' Mycroft said slowly, struggling to sound indifferent, but Sherlock heard uncharacteristic notes of fear in his voice.

Other people, more affectionate and less emotionally awkward, would hug and say _I love you, please don't die_. Sherlock didn't move, even squeezing Mycroft's hand would feel strange, after all those years of aloofness and nonsensical feuds.

'Do you really have two children?'

'Yes.'

'Hmm. So you want me to look for two agents or actors amongst the mourners.'

'That would cheer you up.'

'You do realise that people would come to your funeral only to see how well you faked your death.'

'Which is why I need to you visit my grave from time to time and laugh hysterically.'

Sherlock looked through the window. The weather did not match his mood, it was obnoxiously sunny outside, a balmy spring day. He imagined the funeral, the overwhelming combination of abandonment and loss and illogical anger. 

'Don't look so worried. I haven't died yet.'

For once in his life, Sherlock kept his deductions to himself. The risk of another heart attack, the possible complications, the survival rate. 'I don't want you to die,' he said instead and hated his unsteady voice. 

Mycroft half-smiled. 'Everyone-' 

'Oh, shut up. _Everyone dies_ , _balance of probability_. Don't talk, Mycroft, you need to rest.' 

'You won't miss me. You have always wanted to be the only child, remember? You will have the freedom to do as you please and I won't bother you with my advice and disapproval anymore.' 

Sherlock used to think that was what he wanted, living in the world without Mycroft. Now he was aware of the obstacles and problems he would have to face without the assistance of his infuriating, overprotective big brother. John and Greg and Molly were all important to him, they were his friends, taught him so much about human nature. But none of them compared to Mycroft on the intellectual level and Sherlock could already feel the devastating loneliness, empty space that no one could fill. He wasn't ready for this.


End file.
